The Epic of Vim
by voltaira
Summary: 30 years after the Dragonborn defeated Alduin, the civil war is still raging. Vim, a Thalmor agent, must choose her allegiances. The land will be shaped by her choices. (The Dark Brotherhood, zombies, and cannibalism ahead!)


Darkness shrouded Vim like a mother embracing a beloved child. She stood within a dank keep, ten paces away from her snoring target against a frigid stone wall. The Nord grunted in his sleep and shifted upon his large mound of putrid furs, releasing a foul waft of air which had his stalker quickly wrinkling her distinctively aquiline nose. The graceful arch of an elven bow shone dimly golden as the hooded High Elf carefully nocked a poisoned arrow into place. She sighted, and was a mere moment separated from releasing the projectile and the deep coma-like sleep it would bring, when the door to the keep swung slowly open.

Hearing the hinges emit an oiled hiss, courtesy of the troll's fat she had just applied, Vim carefully swung her bow round to face this disturbance. She gave a slight hiss of surprise as dim torchlight from the sputtering light mounted next to the ancient door revealed a lithe, tiny figure in almost utterly concealing red and black leathers.

Shocked into motionless by the appearance of an assassin of the fabled Dark Brotherhood, she watched with fascination as the Wood Elf stepped with a graceful, prancing motion across the tired flagstones to kneel at the Nord's side. With a slight flick of a covered, yet still seemingly feminine wrist, the Nord was gurgling, horrid sounds bubbling from both sets of lips, those upon his face and those of the newly made grimace upon his grimy neck. The Wood Elf stepped back to survey her handiwork, dispassionately gazing at the doomed Nord who had begun to claw at his wound, fingers slipping amid spreading crimson.

Vim cursed, not bothering to disguise her annoyance. Unadil, her superior, would not be pleased. The Nord was meant to have stood trial for his defiance of Thalmor authority. Although she could care less about the man's supposed crimes, she did not want to be reprimanded. The assassin spun wildly, catching the sound, matching daggers in her hands, but could not immediately see the concealed source of the uttered profanity. The tip of an arrow blossomed out the back of the Wood Elf's armored shoulder as her eyes rolled up into her head. The twin daggers dropped with a metallic clamor to the grey stone floor and she fell back, landing upon the Nord who was still weakly twitching with a stiff thud.

Striding forth quickly, Vim hauled the assassin up by the front of her distinctive leathers and lowered her, stomach first, onto the grimy floor. Quickly searching her, she removed several, rather lethal-looking blades of various metals and poisons. An unusually bulky ring adorned a small finger, possibly of Daedric make. Not wanting any part of that, the elf decided to leave it alone. She discarded the weapons and poisons with a swift booted kick out of her immediate vicinity, pulling a sturdy rope out of her convenient horker leather satchel to secure her victim. She tied the assassin's wrists together behind her narrow back and used the excess rope to immobilize her ankles, positioning her bent legs into what would become an immensely uncomfortable, sturdy hold.

Satisfied in her rope work, the High Elf turned her captive on her side and caught her face in long fingers, discarding the cloth covering the lower half of her face to reveal round, cherubic features that lied of an innocent nature. Straight brown eyelashes framed still all-white orbs. Vim pulled back the deep hood and found honey-brown hair. The elf sat back on her heels. She had expected slightly less ordinary features and smiled softly at her silliness, ordinary suited assassins far more than remarkability.

Vim's musing was interrupted as a chthonic pulse radiated through the keep's still air. She closed her eyes with regret and trepidation, not needing to see the spinning shadows condense behind her to know who it was. The barest imitation of human flesh touched her neck, leaving goose bumps in the wake of its caress. The pale fingers wandered under Vim's jaw, seeking to make her face its presence. Rising with caution roiling in her gut, she slowly turned to face the Daedric Prince, smoothing her features into the neutral, pleasant mask that she always assumed when with her mistress.

As was her usual form when with her favorite plaything, Boethiah had chosen the body of an exquisite raven-haired woman embellished with ruby lips and seemingly black eyes. With careful observation, Boethiah's gaze was exposed to be of a deep crimson, a view into the lake of lifeblood collected from her Tournaments. Black pupils, stretched into the approximation of cat's slits almost blended into the overbearing red. Standing at a fair seven and half feet, the demon easily towered over the High Elf who was unusually tall for her gender, though not perhaps, for her race. Vim suspected that this was no accident on the part of the Prince, that her height was meant to overwhelm. It accentuated both the elegance the Daedra held herself with and the cascading, glimmering falls of her midnight-toned gown which swept the floor behind her. Small diamonds were woven into the otherworldly material, swirls of them beginning at her shoulders and gradually growing in number until they populated the dress' train like the clear night's sky.

"My lady," Vim began, "How may I serve?"

[i]"Is serving truly what you wish?"[/i] The Daedra's voice resonated deeply within Vim's mind, causing the elf to shudder. Vim knelt on one knee, head lowered in assumed respectfulness and obsequiousness.

"How have I displeased my goddess to warrant such a question?" Vim focused every molecule of her being to keep her voice steady. Servility was not in her nature, but she had seen conversations very much like this one take nasty turns with other warriors in the Daedra's collection.

Boethiah's horrific stare flickered towards the small heap of paralyzed Wood Elf, [i]"You would fool with a child of Sithis. He is a vengeful, possessive entity and I would be unwilling to protect your imprudent head if he bays for your blood for such a disrespectful action."[/i]

"I wish to question the assassin, my lady, not to harm her."

The Daedra arched one shadow-black eyebrow and grabbed Vim's head in both hands, forcing her to stand once more, [i]"Are you looking for another mistress? Do you wish to trade my authority for that of the Night Mother and her Dread Father?"[/i] She slid her hands and sharp nails into the elf's hood, sliding it back as she did so to free the captive golden mane. Twining her hands into the freed hair, she forced Vim's gaze to meet her own.

"I am yours, Mistress, only yours," said Vim beseechingly. She was in pain: her scalp was not used to such rough treatment. "I have been experiencing dreams from the Night Mother, I want to know what they mean!" she yelped as the twisting sensation increased.

Boethiah released her suddenly and scrutinized her plaything closely. [i]"Explain yourself,"[/i] she demanded shortly.

"I dream of an ornate coffin swinging open and the corpse of a woman beckoning to me from within. She calls to me and I feel this overbearing urge to follow the call. I know it is the Night Mother, my lady, and I would not refuse the summons for fear of angering her. I thought to contact the Brotherhood to let them know I was, respectfully, not interested." Vim's lies spilt from her lips easily, as doves soaring to freedom.

Boethiah scowled. [i]"What right does she have to try and seduce one of mine?"[/i]

"She sees your power reflected in me, mistress." Flattery usually worked on the self-absorbed Daedra, in Vim's opinion. She was proven right as Boethiah's ruby lips quirked with wicked pride.

"If you attempt to leave me, dear one, I will destroy you." The Daedra seized Vim's head once more and kissed her. A sharp pain lanced through Vim's mouth and she felt the odd coppery tang of blood running over her tongue. She winced and the demon smirked.

"Until next time, love." The shadows spun apart and the Prince was gone.

Vim spat out a mouthful of red and sighed with relief. She hated the infrequent encounters that Boethiah initiated. Slowly rotating, she shook the tenseness out of her shoulders and glanced at the Wood Elf whose pupils had returned back to their normal placement. The small elf could not make much in the way of expressions because of the paralysis potion, but Vim thought she could detect a slight rounding of the muscles surrounding the eyes.

"It is unworthy of you to judge, my friend," said Vim conversationally, "Everyone has issues. Mine are odder than most, granted, but still. Moderate your shocked expression." She rapped the elf smartly on the nose with chuckle and stepped smoothly over her to hack at the Nord's head.

She dumped the leaking mess into an oiled sack and attached it to her belt. Returning to the assassin, Vim swung her up onto her shoulder and proceeded to leave the keep. The rest of the castle had long ago crumbled away, leaving only its heart to stand guard over the old grove surrounding it.

The Nord had been living without his usual band of friends and mercenaries. He had fled from the arms of Cyrodiilic law, leaving his men in the dead of the night in order to move more quickly. With this knowledge, Vim's guard was lower than what it should have been. She swung wide the weathered exit and was outside without the usual cautionary care she typically employed.

A shadowy beast with glowing red eyes, and strangely, a saddle, awaited her. Darkness seemed to curl around the shaggy animal as it noticed the High Elf and her burden. A terrible challenging whinny rose from depths of its broad chest, the sound making the Elf step back rapidly, golden eyes widening in surprise. The beast's muscles suddenly gathered, evident even behind its dense coat, and Vim saw a dreadful fate. She jumped back into the keep and swung the locking mechanism home just before an alarming force slammed into the solid, yet worryingly old, wood. The crumbling keep shook violently.

Vim shrugged the Wood Elf off of her shoulder, caught her slightly so the fall would not damage, and hurriedly accessed her satchel. Finding the potion that she had rubbed onto the last arrow, she attempted to upend it on another and cursed in outrage when the slight bottle fell from her grasp. It did not break, but rolled across the floor spilling precious liquid in seeming mockery of the elf.

She lunged for the poison trail as another hard thud resounded through the keep and swept her arrow back and forth through it. Desperately grabbing her bow and nocking the arrow, Vim aimed towards the door which now had several planks missing. The beast was coming for its third try when an arrow whistled through one of the gaps and struck it in the breast.

The demon's momentum carried it through the door which gave up and busted apart. Slowed by the wood, the poisoned beast staggered towards Vim in an ultimately futile undertaking. It collapsed in a quivering mound of slavering horsey spite, dulling red eyes giving the High Elf a grim promise.

Vim unsheathed her treasured blade, Goldenbrand, from her side and drew near the horse, blade outstretched. She stabbed down through its neck, tearing the jugular and ripped her blade out viciously, creating what should have been a mortal wound. Blood spurted out, soaking her in a generous spray.

The elf wiped her eyes clear and then again let profanity fly. The wound had closed over leaving only the barest mark of a scar and even that was disappearing with expediency. Vim again turned to her satchel, digging out another rope. She hobbled the beast and tested the knots. Satisfied in their strength yet unwilling to remain in the same locality as the horse, she grabbed the assassin once more and replaced her onto her shoulder, pausing to yank the arrow out. The paralysis poison would slow the leak of fluids.

Retreating to the outdoors with the assassin's weapons and bottles in hand including the sturdy bow that she had noticed attached to the demon horse's saddle, Vim gave an ascending whistle of three notes. Out from the forest approached a mealy chestnut horse, her cherished Frost. She stored her possessions and they rode north.

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Belwen was uncomfortable. She and her captor had been riding for the past two hours over roads that had used to be maintained by the Empire. Pot holes and worse were their wont now thanks to the civil war. The Wood Elf felt each dip in the road on quite a personal level immobile and tied to a horse as she was. A particularly vicious jolt set her to moan softly and close her eyes in agony.

Belwen immediately opened her eyes again and faintly smiled, _Praise Sithis, the poison is wearing off! _A sound of disgust suddenly reached her ears.

"You are leaking all over my blanket! Boethiah curse all Wood Elves and their damned poison resistance!" Vim reined the horse to the side of the road and pulled Belwen and her concealing cover off to the ground. "I am going to have to waste another potion on you to fix your shoulder. Your death is not in my plans at the moment," she grumbled while tossing her pack next to the elf. "Stay, Frost," she told the horse who was looking askance at a patch of tender greens. He tossed his head and snorted. Vim grinned and gave him a pat before crouching to scrounge for a healing potion.

While Vim's back was turned, Belwen attempted to flex her muscles. She found them sore, particularly the area around where the arrow had gone in, but perfectly serviceable. Unfortunately her bonds were also operative, catching her feet and wrists in a stern grip.

"Yes, yes, you are able to move," said Vim, "The potion tends to wear off all at once. Now drink this before you attract any wild beasts." She positioned Belwen in a more upright manner and held a weak potion of healing to her lips. Belwen sipped cautiously and found that it was indeed a healing potion, for the odd taste of flowers accompanied it. Her damaged shoulder grew warm and cool in rapid succession as all the pain left it.

"My bow," rasped Belwen.

"I have that, your daggers, and poisons. Behave and you may receive them back eventually."

"Who're you?"

"I am called Vim," said the tall elf patiently, "And I apologize for any discomfort, but I must insist on your cooperation. I am due back at Northwatch Keep quite soon supposedly with that Nord in custody. Instead I have you, an assassin of the Dark Brotherhood."

"You aren't going to turn me in, are you? I thought you had questions about those dreams!" Belwen's voice was growing much stronger, albeit with panic.

"If you collaborate with my story, it is likely that I will not denounce you as a murderer."

"And your story involves what?"

"You are also an agent of the Thalmor," Belwen's eyes widened, "You tracked the Nord Warlord through the passes connecting Cyrodiil and this province and killed him before I arrived at the ruins. You need my help on one small matter before you return to our base in Cyrodiil," Vim paused, gauging her captive's reaction.

"I don't have any papers or any proof that I am Thalmor," protested Belwen, "How can you possibly expect them to believe me?"

"Papers are easily forged. As for the rest, let me do most of the talking and then we can be on our merry way. Unadil should not question you too harshly, my father does command a certain respect among my people even in this forsaken province."

"You haven't even asked my name, and you want me to agree to all of this?" said Belwen incredulously.

"Is that relevant?" queried Vim. Belwen shot her a pained look. Vim's lips quirked slightly, "As you wish. What, may I ask, does the assassin go by?"

"The assassin goes by Belwen. My friends call me Bel."

"Am I your friend?"

"You have me tied up."

"Quite. I will loose your legs and you may ride in front of me until we reach Northwatch Keep. You will need to put that spare robe I found amongst your possessions on as well to disguise your identity should we meet anyone on the road. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Belwen in a satisfied manner as Vim began cutting her ropes, "But what exactly do you plan to do after Northwatch? I won't betray the Brotherhood to you. That would cost me a great deal more than my life even if I was willing."

"I am going to perform the Black Sacrament with a slight modification. We shall have a living sacrifice."

"Do you have a death wish?!" Belwen exclaimed angrily, "My siblings will hunt you down for that insolence and rip the soul from your beating heart to pledge to Sithis!"

Vim looked thoughtful. "Do you have a talented necromancer in your cult? I cannot imagine that a simple soul trap would permit one to harvest a living individual's spirit. And I am not sure that the soul resides within the heart's chambers."

Disdainfully, Belwen corrected her, "We are not a cult, Altmer. Ours is the true religion for Sithis is all. Others pray to lesser beings, but they are following false gods."

"Indeed. I am not going to kill you for although I am ignorant of a great many things, pissing off a legendary assassin's cul-… guild is not something, in the best interests of continued life, that I would ever attempt."

"Then what [i]_are_ you attempting?" Belwen asked with narrowed eyes.

"To attract the attention of the Night Mother. I suspect that she will be mildly vexed at the sight of her sacred ritual being completed with a centerpiece made of her own child. Hopefully she will send someone to interfere and or contact us. Now, are you in a condition to stand?"

"No. My legs are asleep."

"Very well." Vim pushed the robe over the assassin's head and pulled her arms through the sleeves. She tied Belwen's hands once more and whistled to Frost. He came to stand beside her as she hoisted Belwen by the scruff of her now hidden leather garb and settled her in the front of the saddle and climbed behind her.

Belwen huffed, "You handle me like a child."

"You are the correct size, dear."

"Shut up."

Vim chuckled, "Northwatch Keep is just over that rise. We are going to ride in after I untie your hands and you will be my meek prisoner unless you wish to have ebony applied to your tender bits until we are in sight of a wizard," she cautioned.

"They're never going to buy this. I don't have any Thalmor clothing and we look suspicious riding on one horse. Why can't we go set up your terrible plan to attract the Brotherhood and skip this whole fool's errand?"

"Often it is considered unwise for lone operatives to display their allegiance among the Nordic people. If you have not noticed, they hate us. Because of this, some agents go in disguise. Your horse was eaten by a bear, remember?"

"Ha! I'd like to see a bear try!" Belwen cackled at the very thought.

"Me too," Vim said wryly, "But that is our story. We shall not mention the demon horse. What is the beast's name?"

"Shadowmere. She's not actually mine, the Listener lent her to me. I still have a hard time believing you managed to drop her with a poisoned arrow, even after seeing it myself." Noting Belwen's casual reference to the Dark Brotherhood's leader, Vim shook her head slightly. She was going to have to become accustomed to this new reality.

"I shot her in the heart. And she did not just 'drop.' The damn horse took down the door down."

"Poor you."

"Terror overwhelmed my heart! But enough, Northwatch is just ahead."


End file.
